lomlando!

Because you were here.

Actually here.

In the general admission section at Silverstone, standing shoulder to shoulder with a crowd that refused to sit, shoes sinking slightly into the softened ground beneath you, eyes locked on the track like if you looked away for even a second, you’d miss something.

And right then, there was nothing to miss. George Russell was leading. Your driver. Your favorite. Your everything that season. It was his home race. It was the team’s home race. He was the championship leader by a margin that actually felt safe enough to allow yourself to believe in the thought that he might actually finally win the WDC. He was having the kind of season critics talked about when they talked about defining moments.

Every time he came around your section, the crowd erupted. It was deafening with cheers breaking through the rain, people shouting his name like he could hear it over the engine, like it mattered that he knew they were there.

Still, you joined them every time, of course.

You were already standing, but you pushed up higher onto your toes anyway, straining for a better view as the silver car cut through the spray, slicing past your section in a blur

“Go on, George!”

Your voice was swallowed immediately by the crowd, but it didn’t matter.

He passed, still in the lead.

But just like that, the noise trailed off behind him, fading as the cars disappeared into the next sector.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of rain. You exhaled, breath catching slightly, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Your hands were cold, they probably had been the whole time but you only noticed it then. You tilted your head back for the first time since the race started. The rain hit your face directly. It was heavier than before. Colder than before.

Your smile faltered. You noticed it all at once.

The spray of the cars. The thick, heavier plumes of water kicking up behind each car, hanging in the air longer than they should. 

The track looked darker, slicker.

You watched as a car further back twitched slightly through a corner. It was just a subtle slip, quickly corrected, but it stuck with you.

Another one followed. It was nothing dramatic, and likely not enough for commentary to panic. But it was enough for you to see it.

Around you, the energy hadn’t changed. Fans still cheered as other drivers came through in quick flashes of color and sound, orange cut through the gray as Lando sped past to a roar of approval, but the roar now felt distant and muffled to you.

You didn’t join in the cheers.You were now watching the track. Watching the conditions. Watching the way the rain kept falling harder as each second passed.

“—he’s coming back around!”

The voice next to you cut through your thoughts, and your head snapped up instantly, attention locking back where it belonged.

George.

Your heart kicked up again as you leaned forward, eyes scanning through the haze of spray, searching for the silver car. 

He was still leading, but barely. Gaining closer behind him was Oscar Piastri. He was much closer than before.

Too close.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

One moment they were aligned, Oscar was closing in, rain spray thick between them, and the next—

“No!” You didn’t even realize you’d said it out loud.

A sudden movement. A loss of control. The cars snapped. One, then the other. 

And then they were in the wall.

The sound seemed to hit a split second later. A dull, sickening impact swallowed by the rain and the collective gasp of hundreds of people all at once.

Everything stopped. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe the race continued slowly behind them, maybe the commentary continued, maybe the crowd was still reacting. But for you, it all dropped away into nothing. Silence.

You were still standing. Everyone was. But now no one was cheering.

They were staring. You were staring. At the wreck. At the two cars crumpled near the barrier, pieces scattered, rain still drifting through the air like nothing had changed.

You didn’t breathe, at least you didn’t think you did, you just waited. For movement. For something. For Anything.

The movement finally came, but selfishly not from where you needed it to. Oscar was the first to move.

You saw it through the rain, him climbing out, unsteady but upright, pulling himself free of the car as marshals rushed forward. Relief flickered somewhere in the back of your mind, automatic and brief, but it was gone just as quickly.

Because George hadn’t moved. Your eyes didn’t leave the second, silver car. Your eyes didn’t leave the stillness, they didn’t dare leave him.

“Come on,” you whispered, though you didn’t realize you were. “Come on, come on—”

But there was still nothing.

Then, movement. But not from him, it was from the marshals.

They were there, surrounding the car, working quickly, carefully. Something cold settled deep in your chest as you watched them begin to lift him out.

He was not walking. He was not climbing out himself. Instead you were watching your driver get lifted out of his car by his seat.

Your vision blurred. At first you thought it was the rain, but then you felt it. A tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin before it disappeared into the cold.

Around you, the crowd shifted. The once loud, excited, happy crowd was now uneasy and murmuring, waiting for confirmation of something no one wanted to say out loud.

But then, a hand raised in the rain. A small movement, a classic George thumbs up.

It was slight and almost easy to miss. It may have been directed vaguely toward the stands. But it was enough.

The reaction was immediate.

Cheers broke out again, louder than before, relief pouring out of everyone at once, messy and overwhelming and desperate. You let out a breath for the first time in what felt like 30 minutes. 

He was okay. But even through the relief, something didn’t sit right.

Because across the track stood Oscar.

He was talking briefly to a medic, helmet off, expression unreadable from your distance.

And then, like he felt your eyes on him, he turned.

Just for a second, his gaze flicked toward the stands. Toward the noise and celebration. 

And then he turned back around and walked away.

The ride back was quiet. Not the comfortable kind. Not the tired, post-race silence where everyone replayed moments in their head and slowly came down from the adrenaline.

This was different. This was heavy.

Rain tapped against the window in uneven patterns, streaking the glass, blurring the outside world into something so unrecognizable, but you weren’t looking at it anyway.

Your phone was still in your hands, and it hadn't left them since the accident. 

Refresh. Nothing. Refresh. Still nothing.

Your thumb moved automatically, over and over again, cycling through apps, posts, updates, anything that might give you some solace. 

Because right then, all you had was that moment. The crash. The stillness. The way they had to lift George Russell out of the car.

You swallowed hard, forcing the thought away as your screen reloaded again.

Maybe it was nothing. You clung to that thought, at least. Maybe it was just precaution. A small concussion, a bruised rib, something that looked worse than it really was.

He gave a thumbs up. He was fine.

Refresh. Again, nothing.

The silence stretched all the way back to your room. You didn’t remember unlocking the door, or stepping inside. But suddenly you were there, the door clicking shut behind you, the quiet even louder now without the low hum of a crowd.

Your jacket was still damp, but you didn’t take it off. You just sat on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, phone still inches from your face.

Refresh. Something new.

A clip. You didn’t even register the caption before you tapped it.

And then you were met face to face with him. Oscar Piastri.

Sitting at a press conference table, tens of microphones angled toward him. But yet he looked fine, completely fine. Clean, put together, unshaken.

Someone asked a question, you didn’t even catch all of it, but you knew it was about the crash.

He exhaled slightly. Almost like a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, casual, controlled, like it was nothing. “I messed up. But that’s just racing.”

That’s just racing?

The words echoed in your head, louder than anything from the track, louder than the crash itself. Your hand tightened around your phone. And before you could stop yourself, you threw it back onto the bed behind you.

It landed with a dull bounce, barely moving the blankets, but it wasn’t the impact that mattered. It was the release. You dragged your hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you saw spots, trying to push the anger back down before it fully took over.

You didn’t even know what was wrong yet. That was the worst part, though. You didn’t know. For all you knew, he was fine. For all you knew, he’d be back next weekend, smiling, brushing it off like it was nothing.

But then why hadn’t there been an update? Why hadn’t the team said anything?

Your hands dropped slowly. Your gaze shifted back to the bed, to your phone.

You reached for it again, then unlocked it.

The app you opened loaded slowly, and for a split second, you considered closing it, pretending you never opened it at all.

But then the post appeared.

Black background, white text.

Your stomach dropped before you even started reading. You knew it was the Medical update that you had been searching for.

Your eyes scanned too fast at first, skipping over words, trying to get to the end before your brain could fully process what you were seeing.

And then it hit. A Broken femur. Immediate surgery. Six months rehab time. Out for the rest of the season.

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t fit together properly. They didn’t belong in the same sentence as his name.

Your vision blurred again. Another tear slipped down your cheek, slower this time, heavier than before. You blinked hard, like that might fix it. Like stopping crying might somehow undo what you just read. Unsurprisingly, It didn’t.

So you did the only thing you could, you closed the app. If you didn’t look at it again, it wasn’t real. If you had forgotten you read it, then it hadn’t happened.

You sat there for a second staring at the blank screen before you opened another app. TikTok this time.

And there it was, the first thing you saw, the clip of Oscar again. Him sitting behind a table, talking about the accident like it was nothing. “Yeah, I messed up. But that’s just racing.”

Your jaw tightened. Your chest rose quickly, you felt something start to brew that you knew wouldn’t sit quietly like the grief did. This feeling was different. This was anger.

You pushed yourself off the bed suddenly, like if you stayed still for even a second longer you might actually explode. Your phone was already in your hand. You crossed the room and sat it down against the desk, propping it up just enough to frame you.

You didn’t check how you looked. You didn't fix your hair, you didn't bother to wipe away the clear redness in your eyes.

You just hit record.

For a second, you just stared at yourself on the screen. Breath still uneven and eye still glassy.

But then, you started talking. Words spilled out faster than you could control them. You went on and on about the crash, about what you saw, about how reckless it was, about how unnecessary and avoidable it all was. 

And mostly about how someone leading the championship, someone driving their home race, someone who had everything to lose, lost it. All because of him, all because of Oscar Piastri. 

You didn’t hold back. You said what you were thinking. You said what you believed that everyone was thinking, but what no one else was saying.

“It’s not just racing,” you snapped, voice breaking slightly. “Not when someone’s out for the entire season because of it.”

Your chest tightened again, but you pushed through it. “You don’t just get to brush it off like that.”

Your voice dropped, quieter “He lost everything.”

The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, and way too heavy. You stopped recording abruptly, your finger hitting the screen without hesitation. You didn’t watch it back or edit it. You didn’t think of a witty caption or hashtags. 

You were sprawled across the bed on your stomach, chin resting in your hand while you scrolled lazily through your phone. Your friend sat on the other bed across the room, equally absorbed in whatever was happening on her own screen.

Then your phone buzzed, and then it buzzed again, and then again. You frowned, watching the notifications stack on top of each other at the top of your screen.

New follower.New comment.New like.

“Why is my insta blowing up?” you murmured, mostly to yourself.

Your friend barely looked up. “Maybe you went viral.”

You snorted. “For what? Just existing?”

Another notification popped up. You sighed as you opened the app, your confusion only growing when you saw the number of followers continuing to climb higher and higher every time you refreshed. 

“I’m serious,” you said now, sitting up a little. “I’m getting like a ton of followers.”

That caught your friend’s attention. She glanced up from her phone. “For real?”

You nodded slowly as you scrolled down the neverending tab to finally find the notification that seemed to start it all.

“Oh wait—” Your eyes widened slightly. “I got tagged in something right before it all started happening,” you said.

“You got tagged in what?”

You read the account name out loud, brows knitting together. “Indy…wags?”

Your friend immediately perked up, interest fully peaked now. “Okay wait, look at it.”

“I am.” You tapped the post. For a split second, you didn’t fully register what you were looking at. “Oh my god.”

Your friend immediately sat up straighter. “What? What is it?”

You didn’t answer at first, just stared at the picture on your screen. It was you. Standing in line outside a bar in Nashville the night before. And next to you stood the guy. The one from the bar. The guy that you had called cute for the rest of the night despite only having a 30 second conversation with him in line. 

Your phone slipped from your hands onto the bed as your friend practically dove forward to look.

“Oh!” she laughed. “That’s the cute guy from the bar last night!”

The picture had clearly been taken from a little distance away, probably by someone further down the line. You and the guy were standing close together, angled toward each other. Both of you were smiling like you were in the middle of a conversation.

Which, to be fair, you technically had been. But it had lasted maybe thirty seconds.

He had just leaned slightly toward you and said he thought the color of your cowboy boots was cool. You’d thanked him. And that had been the entire interaction. Yet somehow, the photo made it look like something much more intentional.

You picked your phone back up, reading the caption. Your eyes narrowed at the username. “What does Indy wags even mean?”

Your friend shrugged. “No idea. Click the page.”

You tapped into the account, scrolling through the feed. Your confusion slowly turned into realization. “Oh.”

“What?”

You stared at the bio. “It’s a page about the girlfriends and wives of IndyCar drivers.”

Your friend blinked. Then she slowly turned toward you.“So they think you’re dating that guy in the picture? Does that mean cute bar guy is a race car driver?”

You let out a small laugh of disbelief. “I guess?”

Your friend reached over and snatched the phone from your hands, examining the post again. She squinted slightly at the caption. “Nolan Siegel?”

You gave a small shrug, lips tilting into a crooked smile. “I guess.”

She hummed thoughtfully, then tossed the phone back onto the bed and leaned against the headboard again. “That’s wild.” You both sat there for a moment before she casually added, “How do you think they even found your account?”

That finally made you laugh. “I truly have no idea.”

You shook your head, already scrolling again as another follower notification popped up. Honestly? You decided not to think too hard about it.

The next night, Nashville felt louder than it had the Friday night before. The bar was packed, music thumping through the floor while people shouted over each other just to be heard. You and your friend were tucked into a small spot at the edge of the bar, drinks in hand as you people-watched.

Your phone continued to buzz in your pocket, but this time you ignored it. You already knew what it probably was. More followers, more comments, more people asking questions you didn’t have answers to. You lifted your drink, taking a sip just as two girls approached your table.

“Hi!” one of them said.

You glanced up, a little surprised. “Hi?”

They exchanged a quick look before one of them asked, “Are you Nolan’s new girlfriend?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “What?”

They pointed at you excitedly. “The picture from last night! The IndyWags post.”

Your friend turned immediately, already grinning like she knew exactly where this was going.

“Oh,” you laughed awkwardly, shaking your head. “No, no, I'm not.”

Both girls blinked. “You’re not?”

“No,” you said quickly. “I didn’t even know who he was. He just complimented my boots when we were standing in line.” You gestured vaguely down toward them. “The color.”

The girls looked down, then back up at you. “Oh.”

They both seemed to process that for a second. “Well,” one of them said with a small pout, “that’s a little sad.”

You tilted your head. “Sad?”

The other girl smiled apologetically. “Yeah. We thought you two were cute together.”

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “Well, sorry to disappoint.”

They both laughed too before wishing you a good night and disappearing back into the crowd.

You turned back toward your friend who you could feel staring at you. Smiling.

“What?” you asked suspiciously.

She leaned her chin into her hand. “You know…”

You narrowed your eyes at her.

“They’re right.”

You immediately groaned. “Oh my god.” You took another sip of your drink, hoping the dim bar lighting hid the warmth creeping into your face. “Please don’t start.”

She just laughed. But the truth was that you had looked at the photo again. More than once. And if you were being honest with yourself, you might have thought the exact same thing.

By the time you and your friend made it back to the hotel room, the world felt pleasantly unsteady. You kicked your shoes off somewhere near the door, your jacket long abandoned halfway across the room already. The lights were too bright, your laughter too loud, and everything felt just a little bit easier than it had earlier.

You collapsed onto the bed with a groan, phone already back in your hand. Your friend flopped down beside you, dramatically throwing an arm over her face.

“I’m never drinking again,” she declared.

“You say that every time,” you mumbled.

She didn’t respond, already half asleep due to the comfort of the bed.

For a moment, the room fell quiet again as you pulled out your phone from your back pocket. Your thumb moved, almost instinctively, back to the picture. You let yourself stare at it for longer this time.

The way you were angled toward him. The way he was smiling at you. The way it looked like there had been something there, even if you knew there hadn’t been. 

“You’re looking at it again.”

Your friend’s voice cut through your thoughts. You didn’t even bother denying it.

She let out a disbelieving laugh, rolling onto her side to face you. “You’ve looked at that photo like a hundred times today.”

You huffed, still staring at your screen. “I have not.”

“You have,” she insisted. “And you think you look cute together.”

You finally turned your head, narrowing your eyes at her. “I do not.”

She raised a brow. “You do.”

You rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Before you could argue further, she suddenly pushed herself up onto her elbows. “You should DM him.”

You blinked at her. “What? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” you said, like it was obvious. “There’s no reason to DM him.”

She stared at you like that was the worst excuse she’d ever heard.

“You are literally ‘dating’ him on the internet right now.”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “That does not count.”

She ignored you completely.

“If anything weird happens,” she continued, gesturing lazily, “you can just blame it on being drunk.”

You hesitated. That logic was dangerously convincing. Your eyes drifted back down to your phone. Back to the picture. Back to his face.

“No,” you said again, weaker this time.

Your friend smirked. “Do it.”

You let out a long breath. And then, before you could overthink it, you tapped into his profile. You clicked the message button and typed away.

oh i heard im dating you now

You stared at it for half a second, then hit send.

Your friend let out a victorious laugh. “Oh my god, you actually did it.”

“I hate you,” you muttered, already dropping your phone onto the bed. 

“Sure you do.”

Neither of you waited for a reply, though. The exhaustion, and the alcohol, caught up quickly. And within minutes, the room fell quiet again.

The next morning felt like a personal punishment. Your head pounded with sunlight cutting through the curtains. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t think. Didn’t exist.

Then slowly you reached for your phone. Your eyes barely opened as you unlocked it, wincing at the brightness. Notifications flooded the screen. You squinted at them, trying to piece together what you had missed.

And then you froze.

A message. From Nolan Siegel.

You shot upright so fast it made your head spin.

“—oh my god,” you hissed, immediately regretting the movement as your headache spiked.

Your friend groaned from the other bed. “What?”

You didn’t answer. Because up until that very moment, you had completely forgotten that you had DMed him. 

Your stomach dropped as you opened the message. There it was. Your message. Sent. No taking it back.

And below it, his reply.

You hesitated for only a second before opening it.

i mean, i wouldn’t be mad about that at all

Your heart skipped. Before you could even fully process it, your eyes dropped to the next message.

A phone number.

text me instead :)

You stared at the screen, wide awake now. Hangover somehow forgotten. “Oh my god,” you said again, quieter this time.

Your friend stirred. “What happened?”

You didn’t look away from your phone. “I might actually be in trouble.”

You stared at the number for a long time. Longer than you probably needed to. Your thumb hovered over the screen, tapping lightly against the edge of your phone before pulling away again. This was stupid. It was just a number. He was just a guy.

A guy you had spoken to for maybe thirty seconds. But also a guy the internet had decided you were dating.

You pressed your lips together. Okay, maybe he was not just a guy.

From across the room, your friend groaned again. “Are you going to text him or just stare at it all day?”

You shot her a look. “I just woke up.”

“It’s like noon.”

You ignored her as your eyes dropped back to your phone. And before you could overthink it again, you opened a new message and typed in the number.

hi… it’s your girlfriend apparently

You stared at it and winced. “That’s so bad,” you muttered.

“Who cares, just send it,” your friend said immediately.

You squeezed your eyes shut, and then, hit send.

The reply came faster than you expected. It came almost instantly, actually. 

good to finally hear from you, i was starting to think you didn’t like me

You blinked. Your heart did something annoying in your chest. You typed back quickly this time.

i didn’t even remember sending that last night

Three dots appeared, then just as quickly disappeared. Then, a second later, 

so that’s your excuse?

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

i’m blaming it on my friend actually

Your phone buzzed again.

wow. throwing her under the bus already

Another message followed right after.

im still glad you did it though

You bit your lip, trying, and failing, not to smile. There was a brief pause this time. Like both of you were waiting for the other to say the next thing. Your heart started to pick up again. Before you could lose your nerve you had somehow built up, you started typing again. 

so… does this mean i have to start watching indycar now?

You hovered for half a second, then sent it.

This time, his reply took just a little longer. Not long enough to be dramatic. Just enough to make you wonder.

only if you want to support your boyfriend

You let out a surprised laugh, shaking your head.

“Shut up,” your friend mumbled from the other bed. “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, even as your smile gave you away.

Your phone buzzed again.

im in nashville this weekend. well—obviously

You rolled your eyes at that.

we’ve got a race tomorrow

Another message.

you should come

Your stomach flipped. You sat up a little straighter without even realizing it. Your fingers hovered over the screen.

“Wait,” your friend said suddenly, now fully awake. “What’s happening?”

You didn’t answer right away. Because you were too busy staring at the message.

You should come.

It was casual, like it wasn’t a big deal to him at all. Which somehow made it feel like one.

“You’re going,” your friend said.

You looked up at her. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You hesitated. Then looked back down at your phone.

to the race?

His response came immediately.

yeah

A second later

i can get you in

Your heart skipped.

and then maybe we can actually talk this time

That did it. That was the line. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. This was ridiculous. You didn’t know him, not really. But you couldn’t help but think about the picture. The way it had looked. The way it had felt, even if it had only lasted a moment. And before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed out. 

okay

And you sent it. There was no taking it back now.

Your friend let out a loud, dramatic gasp. “You said yes, didn’t you?”

You looked up at her, trying, and failing, to hide your smile, once again.

“…Maybe.”

She immediately sat up. “Oh my god, what are you going to wear?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what an indycar is.”

She waved that off like it didn’t matter. “We’ll figure that out.”

Your phone buzzed one more time.

ill text you the details

You stared at the message for a second. Then set your phone down, your heart still racing.

Sunday suddenly felt very close.

The air was louder, heavier with anticipation than you could have imagined. The track buzzed with energy in a way that made your chest feel tight, in a good way. People moved with purpose around you, team colors flashing past, engines roaring somewhere in the distance.

It was overwhelming. But exciting, very exciting.

“Okay,” your friend said beside you, grabbing your arm as another car sped by during warmups. “I get it now.”

You laughed nervously, eyes still scanning everything around you. “I told you I didn’t even know what indycar was yesterday.”

“And now you’re at a race because of a guy you accidentally started dating on the internet,” she added.

You groaned. “Please don’t say it like that.”

She just grinned.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. You didn’t have to check to know who it was.

i’ll come find you after

You read the message at least twice, then once again for good measure. You read it over and over again until your heart started doing that thing again. The same thing it had been doing since yesterday. Since the texts. Since him.

The race itself went by in a blur. You tried to follow along, really, you did, but it was hard when every loud pass, every shift in position had your attention splitting between the track and the thought of seeing him again.

Actually seeing him. Not just looking at him in a picture. Not staring at him through a screen. But this time, in real life again. By the time the race was over, your nerves had settled into something steadier. They were not quite gone, but now they were a lot quieter, more manageable.

“You’re pacing,” your friend pointed out.

“I’m not pacing.”

“You are.”

You stopped walking.“Okay, maybe I was a little.”

She laughed softly but didn’t say anything else, just nudged you forward slightly. “You’ll be fine.”

You nodded and took a shaky breath. And then before you could say anything, 

“Hey.”

You turned at the sound of the voice. And there he was. Nolan Siegel. He looked exactly like you remembered, well, maybe a little more tired now. But also a little more real.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You both just stood there, taking each other in like you were both trying to match this moment to the one frozen in that photo.

Then you smiled. “Hi.”

He smiled back immediately, like it was instinct. “Hi.”

There was a brief pause before he glanced at your boots. The same ones.

“Still my favorite color,” he said.

You laughed, the tension easing instantly. “Good. I was worried I peaked the other night.”

He shook his head, stepping a little closer. “Definitely not.”

Your heart skipped. Again. “You did good today,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the track behind him.

“I tried,” he shrugged, but there was a small, proud smile there. “Best finish I’ve had in a while, so” He trailed off, looking at you for a second longer than necessary. “I think you might be a good luck charm.”

Your breath caught just slightly. You tilted your head, playing it off. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded easily. “Show up out of nowhere, internet says you’re my girlfriend, and suddenly I have my best race?”

You laughed softly. “Sounds pretty convincing when you say it like that.”

He stepped just a little closer again, close enough now that it felt familiar in a way it probably shouldn’t. “Guess I might need to keep you around then.”

Your stomach flipped. “maybe you should.”

There was that pause again. But this one felt different. Less awkward and way more intentional. It was like neither of you were in a rush to fill it.

Behind you, your friend cleared her throat, loudly. You barely spared her a glance.

Nolan smiled, glancing past you briefly before looking back. “Can I take you somewhere? Somewhere a little less, uhm, loud?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.”

He gestured for you to follow, and you fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it had started with a random picture. A misunderstanding. A joke.